


Negotiations

by Atiaran



Series: Samantha [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiaran/pseuds/Atiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fallout 3 fic. The Vault Dweller approaches Lucas Simms about taking Charon's contract should anything happen to her. Sort of an epilogue to my earlier fic "Not to Reason Why." Female Vault dweller, named Samantha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations

**Standard disclaimer:**   None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author’s note:**   This story is sort of an epilogue to “Not to Reason Why,” an earlier story of mine dealing with Charon’s contract falling into the hands of Colonel Autumn.  In a way it’s kind of a reverse of the final scene in NTRW; while that dealt with Samantha (my female version of the Lone Wanderer) calming Charon’s fears, the second half of this fic deals with Charon calming Samantha’s fears and anxieties about his contract, and the amount of power it gives her over him.  The first half deals with Samantha and Charon approaching Simms about being willing to be heir to Charon’s contract if something happens to Samantha; this was just a plot bunny that leapt into my head, but I think it turned out fairly well.

Thanks as always to the wonderful LadyKate, who has truly gone above and beyond the call of duty in being willing to beta _all_ my Fallout fic so far despite not being a member of the fandom or having even played the game!

 

“So…let me get this straight.”  Simms leaned back in his chair, tipping another finger of scotch into his glass.  “The two of you wanted to see me about…some contract?”

His eyes rested first on Samantha, then moved to the tall, silent ghoul who had been following her for the past several months.  Simms had taken note of the ghoul when he had first shown up in town at her heels, but had asked nothing of him since; Samantha was a member of Megaton in extremely good standing, and it was not his policy to pry into the lives of such people without a damned good reason.  As long as the ghoul wasn’t causing any problems, then as far as Simms was concerned, whatever was between the two of them was their business.  His name was Charon; Simms knew that much, and he had observed that Gob seemed to know him a little, though they did not appear to be close friends.

Samantha captured his attention now, leaning forward. She was seated across from him at his dinner table, with a bottle of Nuka-Cola before her; Simms had offered her something stronger, but Samantha had explained that she was trying to cut back again.  Simms was aware of her struggles with chems—she had been in and out of Doc Church’s clinic off and on since she had first shown up—and was fairly impressed with her ability to keep the addictions in hand; she was doing much better than the vast majority of wasters so far.   _It’s always a losing game in the end, though,_ he reflected, and wondered if she truly understood that.  Now she pushed back a few strands of loose blonde hair with one thin hand and gestured toward her follower. “It’s _Charon’s_ contract.”

Simms’s eyes went to Charon again.  The ghoul was standing behind her with his arms crossed, his decayed and peeling face unreadable.  As Simms made eye contact, he raised his chin slightly and his impressive jaw set.  Simms had invited Charon to sit as well, but the ghoul had ignored him.  “Can either of you explain this to me?” Simms asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Charon said nothing, but Samantha sighed, taking a gulp from her bottle of Nuka-Cola.  “Well, I can try,” she said shortly.  She glanced at her follower uncomfortably.  “I don’t know the whole story, and I don’t really know the ‘why’s behind it, only some of the ‘hows.’  But I can tell you what I know….”

“You can tell me?”  Simms raised one eyebrow and pushed his hat back on his head slightly.  “It’s _Charon’s_ contract.”  He addressed himself to the ghoul.  “Why don’t _you_ tell me yourself?”

The ghoul glowered at him.  “Talk to Samantha,” he said curtly.  His hands tightened on his arms a bit.  They were bandaged in white; Simms had noticed that immediately the moment Charon returned to town.

“Well, it _is_ your contract, after all.  Why don’t you—“

“ _No._ Talk.  To.  Samantha.”

Samantha glanced back at her follower and smiled ruefully.  “You see?”  She rested her elbows on the table.  “Anyway….”

Simms listened intently while Samantha talked, occasionally taking another gulp from his glass, or interjecting a question for clarification.  It was not Samantha he was primarily watching, however; it was Charon.  Simms watched the ghoul as Samantha talked briefly about how she had bought his contract--mentioning only that she had picked it up in Underworld—and explained what Charon’s contract meant to him:  how he had to obey any order given to him by the one who held it.  His eyes dropped to Charon’s bandaged hands as she sketched the outlines of their recent run-in with Autumn and the Enclave:  how Autumn had managed to get hold of Charon’s contract, and what he had done with it.  Charon was completely silent throughout the whole tale, and his expression never changed, not once.  The ghoul was aware that Simms was watching him; he met Lucas’s eyes with a flat and uncompromising stare that gave nothing away.  Despite everything, Simms was definitely getting a vibe of low-grade hostility off of him.  _I don’t think he likes me very much.  Matter of fact, I don’t think he likes anyone at all._ His eyes went to Samantha, and he wondered about how the two of them got along out there.

“…and so we managed to kill Autumn and escaped,” Samantha was finishing.  She looked haunted just at the memory of the ordeal, and Simms had to say he couldn’t blame her; he knew that the Enclave was bad news, but the cold, purposeful cruelty Samantha had described gave even him pause.  “After we got away, I…”  She looked back at her expressionless follower, and he saw a painful regret in her eyes.  “I promised Charon that I would do everything I could to see that he was never put in such a situation again.”  Charon’s face was stone.  Samantha could have been talking about the weather, Simms thought.  “We’re…we’re taking several precautions, but one of the things I apparently need to do is to establish a line of succession.  That way, if…if something happens to me,” she fumbled, “the contract goes immediately to someone else and isn’t just lying around waiting to be picked up by any random person.  That’s why we’ve come to you,” she ended.  “If—something _does_ happen….”  Here she gestured vaguely, as if unwilling to get too specific, “would you be willing to take Charon’s contract?”

The question hung there.  Simms pushed away from the table and studied them both some more.  What Samantha had mentioned—about picking Charon’s contract up in Underworld—tugged at his memory briefly, and after a moment, he had it.

“Wait a minute, I’ve heard of you.  You’re Ahzrukhal’s Charon,” he said.  “I think Gob mentioned you once.”

Charon raised his chin and something flickered in those filmy eyes.  “I am not ‘Ahzrukhal’s Charon,’” he said flatly.  Samantha winced.

“Ahzrukhal was the former holder of Charon’s contract,” she explained.  “He…doesn’t hold it anymore.  Charon didn’t particularly care for him all that much—“

“He was an evil bastard,” Charon interjected in that same grinding voice.

“’Was?’” Simms tilted his head.

“’Was,’” Charon confirmed.  He said no more.  Samantha watched her follower for a moment, then sighed.

“Anyway, that’s why we decided to come to you,” she continued.  “Because—if you will permit me to say so,” she added, flushing faintly, “we’ve always thought of you as an honorable man with a strong sense of justice.”

Simms tilted his head again.  “Why, thank you,” he said coolly.

“And so that’s why we’re asking,” she finished.  “Will you do it?”

Simms regarded her and her follower, standing behind her.  The light came slanting in long rays through the pinprick holes in the walls of his house; it was getting on toward afternoon.  Outside he could hear the shouting and laughter of his son Harden as he played some game with Billy Creel’s girl Maggie; the ill-tempered Irish brogue of Moriarty drifted in from farther off in the distance.  It was too faint to make out the words, but Simms guessed he was shouting at Gob again.  The mooing of the Brahmin down below floated up, along with the cursing of the drover.  Simms pushed back his hat, mulling over what he had been told.

“So let me see if I have this right,” he said at length.  “Charon—“  here he pointed at the ghoul “— _must_ obey _any_ order given to him by whoever holds his contract, no matter what that order is?”

“That’s right,” Samantha said, nodding.  Charon was silent.

Simms raised one eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the ghoul.  “Mind giving me a demonstration?”

“I won’t do that,” Samantha said immediately.  “Charon is my friend.  It would be disrespectful to give him an order just to show you he’d do it.  You’ll have to take my word for it.”  Charon still said nothing, though one of the exposed veins in his neck throbbed slightly.

“I see.”  Simms nodded, lacing his fingers together.  He straightened, giving Samantha a very cool stare.  “Sounds like slavery.”

“It’s not,” Samantha replied, somewhat weakly.  “I know—I know it sounds like it, but it’s really not.  It’s—“

“Oh no?”  Simms quirked a brow and turned directly to Charon.  “The one holding the contract can command you to do _anything,_ even against your will, even at the cost of severe personal injury.”  He indicated Charon’s bandaged hands.  “You can’t leave your employer of your own accord, but your employer can sell your contract any time she pleases, completely on a whim.  That seems pretty much the same thing as slavery to _me._ ”

Charon stiffened visibly, Simms noted.  Samantha hurried to explain, “Well, no, _technically,_ the contract—“

“The contract grants my employer the right to my _services,_ not _myself,_ ” Charon interrupted her.  “I am no one’s _property_.”   He spat the word as if it tasted foul.

“To me that sounds like a distinction without a difference,” Simms responded flatly.  “And slavery in _any_ guise is just as abhorrent.”

Samantha glanced at her follower, who was growling angrily, then gave a long sigh.  She ran her hands over her face.  “Yeah,” she said from behind them.  “I…well, to be honest, I kind of agree.  I’m not really sure there’s much of a difference myself.”  Charon said nothing, but something flickered in the ghoul’s filmy eyes.  Simms wondered what it could be.  _It looks almost like…hurt?_  

“To tell the truth,” Samantha was continuing, “the longer I’ve held Charon’s contract the less I like the whole situation.  I was never that happy about it to begin with, but after the experience with Autumn, the whole thing is really starting to give me the creeps.”  She looked back at her follower sadly.  Charon turned to face her, and that strange flicker was in his eyes again.  _It **is** hurt,_ Simms realized.  _Interesting…._   “Still, you know….well, here we are.”  She gave a helpless shrug.  “Things are the way they are, and all we can do is make the best of them.   Taking that into account….would you be willing to take Charon’s contract?”

Simms leaned back in his chair now, tugging at the brim of his hat.  He studied the two of them.  “Let me speak plainly,” he said at last.  “I am _extremely_ uncomfortable with all of this.  Not just your request, but with the entire situation.”  He gestured to take in both of them.  “I really wish you had told me about this earlier, Samantha,” he continued, fixing her with a hard look.  “I don’t like the idea of having something like this going on in my town one bit; and I like the idea of it happening right under my nose and my not being informed about it _even less_.” 

Charon shifted and growled, and Samantha flushed under her deep tan, though to her credit she did not drop her eyes.  Simms pushed back his hat again.  “I cannot see,” he said quietly, “any way in which one person holding as much power over another as you apparently do over Charon can _ever_ be justified. No matter what the circumstances.”

He paused to let his point sink in.  Samantha’s flush grew deeper; behind her, Charon’s eyes narrowed.  The wind had shifted, and once again, Moriarty’s brogue drifted in from the saloon across town, rendered thin by distance.  There was no doubt about it; he was _definitely_ chewing out Gob this time.  Simms muttered a curse under his breath, and continued.

“And while I understand the honor you have done me in asking me this—“ he nodded to both of them “—there is a huge part of myself that is, to put it plainly, appalled by what you are asking me to be a willing party to.”

Charon’s eyes narrowed further, but Samantha nodded.  “I understand,” she said, looking downcast.  She pushed back from the table and started to rise.  “Thank you for being willing to hear our request, anyway.  There are a couple of other people we can try, so—“

“I’m not finished.”  Samantha stopped and turned back toward him.  Simms laced his fingers together.  “The only reason I can think of to consider your request is because of what you told me about Colonel Autumn, and what he did to Charon when he gained possession of his contract.”  He let his eyes fall to Charon’s hands.  “It’s clear to me just how vulnerable he would be if something were to happen to you, Samantha.  For that reason alone, I am willing to entertain the possibility of saying yes.  However, before I give you an answer one way or another, I will need to speak to Charon alone.”

“Of course,” Samantha agreed at once.  She turned to go, glancing over her shoulder.  “Charon, when you’re done here, I’ll be back at the house.  Remember, we were going to try and wash Dogmeat with that flea shampoo Doc Church gave us today—“

Charon looked after her.  “Mistress,” he began.

“Don’t worry, Charon,” she reassured him.  “I’m sure it’ll be all right.  Simms is a good man.”  With that, the door swung open, and she was gone into the brightness outside.

 As the door thumped back into the frame, Simms turned his attention back to Charon.  He had never really seen the ghoul close up before.  In fact, aside from Gob, Simms had not had much experience with ghouls and he studied Charon with interest.  Charon was quite tall—taller than Gob, or Simms himself for that matter—and broader of shoulder as well.  He was not heavily muscled, but there was something about him that spoke of a wiry strength.  What remained of his patchy, parchment-like skin was a strange reddish-orange color, as opposed to Gob’s grayish-yellow.  He thought Charon had a bit more skin left than Gob, though Gob might have had slightly more hair; _either way, it’s six of one, half-dozen of the other,_ Simms thought, shrugging internally.   Charon stood silently under Simms’s scrutiny, though his lantern jaw tightened and his hands clenched on his peeling arms.

 Simms regarded him evaluatively.  At length, he said, “I had no idea what the situation was between you and Samantha, Charon.  I’m sorry.”

The ghoul said nothing, only glowered at him with those filmy eyes.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?  In confidence, of course—anything you say will go no further.”

Charon’s clouded eyes narrowed again, catching Simms’s meaning.  “My relationship with my employer is none of your concern,” he ground out.

“Is it not?”  Simms tilted his head.  Pushing for a reaction, he asked, “How does she treat you, Charon?  Do you feel safe with her?”

The ghoul’s eyes narrowed still further, and his mouth twitched.  “You are insulting her, and you are insulting me.  I will permit neither.”  He reached back and deliberately put one hand on the stock of his shotgun. 

Simms raised one brow.  “How am I insulting _you?_ ”  He gestured toward Charon’s bandaged hands.  “It’s evident that you cannot protect yourself from a cruel employer—“

“You know nothing about the matter,” Charon said brittlely.  “I say again:  I will not permit you to insult either one of us.”

“Would you defend your previous employers from insult as well?”

“No,” Charon said severely.

Simms gave a cool smile.  Pushing still further, he offered, “Perhaps I could meet with both of you from time to time, to ensure that Samantha is not mistreating you—“

Charon’s jaw tightened.  The ghoul took two steps forward and slammed his fists down on the table.  “Perhaps I could snap your neck right now,” he snarled.   Lucas couldn’t help it—he drew back in surprise.  Charon took a deep breath, seemingly unsettled by the strength of his own emotions; he glowered at Simms and curled his white-wrapped hands.  “You are not my master yet, Simms,” he growled. “Be warned.”

 “I’ve made you angry, haven’t I?”  Simms raised an eyebrow.  “Good.”

The ghoul took a step back, blinking in surprise.  Simms allowed him a moment to collect himself.  Charon regarded him suspiciously.

“What do you want?”

“Several things.”  Simms straightened in his chair and laced his fingers together on the tabletop.  “Sit down, Charon,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Please.”

The ghoul studied him for a moment, then moved to take the seat, though his wary expression did not fade.  “Say what you have to say.”

“Very well.”  Simms paused, and eyed Charon.  “Let us begin at the beginning.  Whose idea was it to come to me with this offer?  Yours?  Or Samantha’s?”

“My mistress made the initial proposal,” Charon replied reluctantly.

“I see.”  Simms nodded.  “And you, Charon?  How do you feel about this?”

“If you are acceptable to my mistress, then you are acceptable to me as well.”

Simms shook his head.  “That’s not what I’m asking, Charon.  In fact, that’s exactly why I asked Samantha to leave:  I wanted to hear _your_ opinion on the matter, not hers.  And I will tell you now,” he warned, “if you cannot convince me that _you_ are in favor of my taking your contract, then this whole conversation stops right here.”

Charon was silent for a long moment, obviously thinking.  Simms watched with interest, wondering what was going on in his head.  At last, the ghoul said even more reluctantly than before, “You were my first choice as well.”

“Ah.  Thank you, Charon.”  A thought occurred to Simms then.  “Does Samantha know this?”

“There was no reason to tell her,” Charon replied stiffly.  “Yours was the first name she proposed to me, and I gave my assent.  No further information was required on her part, so I provided none.”

“Hm.”  Simms pondered that.  “And yet, I’m definitely receiving the impression that you don’t like me all that much.”

Charon raised his chin.  “’Liking’ has nothing to do with it.”

“No?”  Lucas waited, but no more information was forthcoming.  Charon simply stared at him.  “Well, be that as it may.”   Simms sighed.  “The fact that you yourself are in favor of my taking your contract allays my concerns slightly, but I am still very, _very_ ambivalent about this whole matter.”  He allowed his eyes to rest on Charon’s hands again.  “To be frank, the amount of power that you and Samantha are asking me to assume over you makes my skin crawl. If I _were_ to do this,” he said, holding Charon’s eyes, “and I still haven’t entirely decided to do so, by the way—my _very_ first priority would be to try and find a way to free you—”

“You will do _no such thing,_ ” Charon snarled.  Across the table, Simms actually flinched.  The ghoul’s rheumy eyes turned hard as granite.  His bandaged hands snapped open and closed as he fought to control his anger.  Finally mastering himself, he drew a breath and forced out in that rasping voice, “There have been many holders of my contract over the years.  Some have been cruel; others have been kind.  Samantha is by far the best of them, though one or two others have come close.  But of them all, the ones that I have hated the _most_ —“ here, his rough voice sharpened and his eyes bored into Simms’s own “—have been the ones who thought that, because they held my contract, that meant that they knew better than I what was best for me, and who took it upon themselves to organize my life as they saw fit.  They did not even _ask—_ “  He broke off, struggling to contain himself again.  “They all thought of themselves as kind,” he continued after a moment, “and perhaps they may have been, but I hated them all the same.”   Charon shrugged.  His anger had faded, leaving a stony resolve behind.  “You say you will attempt to free me from my contract.  I say if that is so, then I will go to my mistress and tell her I no longer assent to my contract passing into your hands.  She will agree to this if I tell her.  Because while I _have_ a choice and the ability to prevent it, I _will not_ allow my life to be played with in that way again.”

Simms nodded, somewhat taken aback.  “I understand,” he said.  “What if I promise that I will make no attempt to free you without securing your consent?”

Charon said nothing, but glared at him.

“Without _first_ securing your consent,” Simms amended.

Charon continued to glare.  His bandaged fists tightened.

“How about if I just drop the whole thing then?” Simms said, giving in.

“I don’t need your condescension and I don’t need your pity.  And I have no desire to be the butt of your attempts to stroke your own moral ego,” Charon rasped.  “What I require from the holders of my contract is nothing more nor less than respect.  _Respect._ ”  Simms was unsure whether the final word was a noun or an imperative.

“I understand and I apologize,” Simms said quietly.  Then, as the ghoul began to relax, he tried, “But Charon, don’t you see—it’s a matter of principle.”

Charon tensed again immediately, and suspicion leapt up in his eyes.  “ _Principle._ ” 

“Yes.”  Simms sighed to see Charon’s renewed wariness, and wondered briefly at the history that had put that wariness there.  “Charon, please.  I’m not trying to offend you; I simply want to explain where I am coming from.  Will you listen?”

The ghoul regarded him.  The distrust in his eyes did not lessen.  “Say what you have to say,” he repeated grudgingly.

“Right.”  Simms sighed, wondering how to put his thoughts into a frame of reference the ghoul would understand.  He had found precious few in this part of the Wastes who even _could_ understand, though Simms suspected that Samantha might be one of them.   At last he drew a breath and looked back at the ghoul. 

“You know how it is in the Wasteland, Charon,” he began.  “Out here, there _is_ no law, no order.  The only rule is that of sheer power—the rule of the fist.  There are the strong, who do as they please, and the weak, who endure what they must.   There are no other options.  As sheriff, I have _tried,_ ” he emphasized, “to change that, at least within the walls of Megaton.  I have tried to substitute a better rule, one based on justice and fairness, rather than strength and cruelty.  I like to think I have had some success in doing so.  But I am not naïve,” he said, holding Charon’s eyes.  He could not tell whether the ghoul was understanding what he was saying or not.  “I have roamed the Wastes as well, though perhaps not as extensively as you and Samantha, and I have seen enough to knock the idealism out of me.  I know—believe me, I know,” he said with a slight chill, “just how easy it would be for me to go off the rails in attempting to apply law and justice.” 

A strange look crossed the ghoul’s face as Simms said that; Simms was not sure what it meant.  He went on.  “I’ve seen it happen before.  Sometimes I think it happens more often than not out here; the Wastes have a way of twisting what is good to darker ends.   The only thing I can do is to try and guard against that tendency, and a very wise woman once told me that the best way to do that is to develop an iron-clad set of principles and stick to them religiously.”  He paused.  “One of my highest principles—possibly _the_ highest one—is that power over others is at best a necessary evil, and must always, _always_ be limited. Unlimited power over another—the kind of ultimate power your contract holder seems to have over you, Charon—is wrong, just _wrong—_ “

“That’s why you’ve taken Gob away from Moriarty, is it?” Charon growled, eyeing him.

Simms sighed again.  “I would if I could, believe me,” he said.  “The fact is, I’m not strong enough in this town to do that yet, or I would have done it long ago.”  His mouth twitched as he thought of the situation.  He had thought privately, on more than one occasion, how wonderful it would be for the town if during a Raider attack, one of those drug-addled psychos managed to introduce a 5.56 mm round to the back of Moriarty’s skull.  _Ah well,_ he thought.  _Moriarty’s power is bound to slip one of these days and when it finally does, I’ll throw him out._   That was what he kept telling himself anyway, he thought grimly.  Returning to the conversation, he continued, “I have to tell you, Charon, that taking you on without doing everything in my power to free you from your contract as soon as possible goes against that highest principle in a way that makes me more than a little sick to contemplate.  Do you see that?  Do you understand?”

He paused, studying the ghoul.  Charon regarded him, unimpressed.

“What I understand is that your desire to free me from my contract has nothing whatever to do with me and is instead all about _you,_ ” Charon rasped.  “At least you have the balls to admit it.  None of the rest of them did.”

Simms groaned and rubbed at his eyes.  _I give up._   “Never mind.  Let’s just drop the subject,” he said again.

The ghoul glowered at him.  “As long as it _stays dropped._ ”

“Very well.  I won’t mention it again.  You have my word, Charon,” Simms assured him.  After a moment, Charon nodded.

“Have you reached a decision?” he asked.

Despite everything, Simms realized, somewhere during the preceding conversation, he had.  “When you return to Samantha,” he said, “tell her I’ve agreed.  If anything happens to her, I promise that I will take your contract.”

Something flickered on Charon’s face, and a strange tension seemed to drain from the ghoul.  His shoulders relaxed fractionally, then tightened again at Simms’s next words.  “However, I do have one condition.”

The ghoul’s eyes narrowed again.  Simms realized he was getting rather tired of that suspicious look.  “What?”

“Answer a question for me.”  He paused.  “As I said earlier, you don’t seem to like me very much, Charon.”

Charon eyed him.  “This conversation has done little to enhance my regard for you,” he allowed.

“And yet, you _still_ want me to take your contract?”

The ghoul crossed his arms again.  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Simms asked bluntly.  “Tell me.  You owe me that much.”

Charon was silent for a long, long moment, weighing Simms’s request.  Simms watched him carefully, studying the minute quivers of his rotted features.  At last, the ghoul’s shoulders slouched.  The stony façade faltered, and Charon gave a sigh.  Simms straightened in his chair; it was the most human Charon had seemed since he had first set foot in Simms’s house at Samantha’s side.  Now Charon leaned forward slightly, raising one injured hand to his head and rubbing at his filmy eyes.

“Liking has nothing to do with it,” he repeated slowly, seeming to formulate his thoughts as he spoke.  “Whether I ‘like’ you or not is irrelevant; I have served employers whom I do not ‘like’ before, and while it is not pleasant, there are worse things.  It is…much more difficult…to serve an employer where…where there is not respect.”  He paused.  “My mistress respects you a great deal.”

“And _you_ , Charon?” Simms pressed him. 

Charon’s jaw worked.  Stiffly, as if it were being dragged out of him, he said, “I do as well.” Lucas thought the words were somewhat at odds with the harsh glare the ghoul was giving him.  “You spoke earlier of ‘principles.’  I think by this you mean honor.  It is that honor in you that my mistress respects…and that I respect also,” he said with difficulty.  “That is why you were my first choice to take my contract.  I…have served men of no honor before, and I will not do so again if I can prevent it.”  He drew a breath. “You have earned my respect, Simms, but what I request in return—no,” he corrected himself.  “You are not my master yet.  What I _demand_ in return is that _you_ extend the same respect to _me._ ” 

He turned that hard stare on Simms again, and the lawman actually found himself somewhat taken aback.  “You _have_ my respect, Charon,” he said solemnly.   “I give you my word.”

The ghoul examined him closely, as if seeking to determine the veracity of his statement.  Simms remained still, meeting Charon’s eyes and holding nothing back.  At length, Charon nodded.

“I will go inform Samantha,” he said only, and pushed back his chair.

As he rose to go, Simms mentioned, “You said I was your ‘first choice’ to take your contract.  Were there others?”

Charon glanced back over his shoulder.  After a moment, he admitted, “Yes.”

“Who were they?”  As the ghoul frowned, Simms explained, “So that, should your contract fall to me, _I_ can establish succession.”

Comprehension dawned on Charon’s decayed features.  “There were two: Hannibal Hamlin, the leader of the Temple of the Union; and the head of an organization Samantha knows of, called the Regulators.”

“Sonora Cruz.” 

Charon’s frown deepened.  “You know her?”

“Yes, I know her.”  Lucas allowed himself a small smile.  “I know her very well.  She is a wise choice.”  He tilted his head.  “If she is still acceptable to you, I will write to her to ask if she will be the third in line.”

“She is still acceptable.”  The ghoul hesitated, almost seeming as if he wanted to ask something, but in the end thought better of it.  “I will go now,” he said instead, and swung open the door.  As he stepped into the sunset and let the door swing shut behind him, Simms felt his smile soften with the touch of memory.

[*]

It was almost twilight by the time Charon stepped out the door of Simms’s house; the dry heat of the day was giving way to the chill of night.  The lights had come on in Megaton; strings of lights hanging between poles glowed; the lamps outside the door of the Brass Lantern and Moriarty’s Saloon shone yellow, and pinpricks of light dotted the dark shapes of the houses, shining from holes in the cobbled-together structures.  Charon descended to the bottom level of the crater, and then made his way up the log steps set in the steep incline that led to the house he shared with his mistress.  Truth be told, he could scarcely wait to get home; the conversation with Simms had been deeply unsettling, despite the conclusion.  He hated answering questions about himself or being forced to speak his thoughts, and Simms had done both, as well as deliberately baited him into anger.  He understood—dimly—why Simms had done this, and knew that it would be unlikely to happen again should the lawman ever take his contract, but he had still found it tremendously stressful—more so even than combat.  He wanted—he _needed_ —to be back in his mistress’s house, engaged again in the comforting routines of their shared lives.  But as he ascended the steps, a memory occurred to him.  _What she said to Simms earlier…._

She had said that she saw no difference between the terms of his contract and… _and…  Slavery._

He forced the thought down.  He could not believe that Samantha thought of him as a…a slave; far from it.  _Yet if not, how could she say that?_ He struggled again to push the thought away.  _Home.  I need to get home._

The lights were on in her house as well, he saw as he stepped onto the platform that supported their house and made his way around back to the door.  It swung open with a creak; Samantha had not locked it, though the hinges needed to be oiled again.  As he stepped inside the bright, pre-war-decorated main room, letting the door swing closed behind him, the three-limbed robot butler Wadsworth hovered into view. 

_“Good evening, sir,”_ Wadsworth greeted him.  “ _Would you like some Purified Water?”_

“Wadsworth, go back to your charging station,” Samantha commanded from behind the machine, and the butler obligingly retreated.  As Wadsworth cleared his view, Charon saw his mistress, dressed in a Merc Grunt outfit, down on one knee in the middle of the floor next to a large metal tub.  A flexible rubber hose ran from the tub to the faucet in the mini-kitchen at the back of the house, and Samantha was filling the basin with water.  Dogmeat was nearby, wagging his tail and panting with excitement.  Samantha started to say something, but Dogmeat noticed Charon at just that moment and his barking drowned out whatever she might have said.  He ran eagerly to Charon’s side and started to jump up on him.

“ _Down,_ Dogmeat!” Samantha ordered.  “Come here!”  Charon started up the rickety stairs as Dogmeat returned to his mistress’s side.  Samantha called after him, “When you come back down, I want to try and put Dogmeat into the tub.  I don’t think he’ll get in on his own, and when I tried lifting him earlier he was wriggling around so much I couldn’t hold him.  I think if you get the head and I get the hindquarters, we should be able to get him in there.”

Charon paused on the balcony and looked over the thin metal railing down into the living room below.  She had not phrased it as an order, he noted; she seemed to think that if she did not use the word "order" or directly request that he do something, that her commands held no force.  She had been careful to speak to him in this elliptical fashion since they had escaped from the Enclave, and it was already beginning to grate on him.  _If she wants to give me an order, she should just **do** so._ He reflected that at the next opportunity, he should find a way to inform her--delicately--that the contract could not be subverted thus; an order was still an order, no matter how it was phrased.

Now, however was not the time.  Charon replied with a simple, “As you say, Mistress,” and opened the door to the small room she had given him for his own.  He quickly deposited his shotgun in the corner, next to the folding couch where he slept, and returned down the stairs to his mistress below.

Dogmeat was sitting next to her, watching her alertly; now Samantha turned to him and pointed to the metal basin.  “Dogmeat!  Get in the tub, boy!  Get in the tub!”

Dogmeat gave a single bark and thumped his tail against the ground.

“In the tub, boy!” Samantha ordered him.  “Come on!”

The dog barked again, his eyes bright and interested.  Samantha groaned.

“You stupid dog,” she chided him affectionately, reaching out to ruffle his ears.  She glanced over at Charon.  “Here.  Let me get his hindquarters.  I think together we—“

“As you command, Mistress.”  Charon looped his arms under Dogmeat’s forelegs as Samantha wrapped her own arms under the dog’s back end.  Together they manhandled the wriggling, squirming Blue Heeler into the tub.  The moment his paws dipped into the water, Dogmeat whined and tried to jump out, but Samantha grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back in.  Staring directly into his blue-and-brown eyes, she said firmly, “Dogmeat!  Sit!” 

Whimpering, the dog obeyed.

“It’s not even cold, you silly,” Samantha scolded him.  She reached for the bottle of flea shampoo Doc Church had given them, then glanced over at Charon’s wrapped hands.  “I, ah, don’t think you’re supposed to get those wet,” she said awkwardly, indicating the bandages.

Charon nodded.  “As you say.”  Samantha had dragged him to Doc Church almost the moment they had hit town.  Church had examined Charon’s hands, whistling at the amount of damage they had sustained, then proclaimed he couldn’t do any more for Charon than had already been done.  He had rebandaged his hands with the radioactive pellets in the center of his palms, and said that they needed another two or three weeks to fully heal.  “Is there anything else you wish me to do, Mistress?”

Samantha bit her lip.  She was already pouring bottled water over Dogmeat’s thick coat.  “No, I think I’m good, Charon,” she said.  “Just…just make yourself comfortable. Relax.”

_Relax._   The concept was foreign to him.  _Relax doing what?_ “As you command, Mistress.”  Charon saw the wince in his mistress’s eyes, and felt his jaw tense.  He settled himself in one of the old, pre-war chairs as Samantha turned her attention back to Dogmeat, trying not to look as awkward as he felt and wishing belatedly that he had kept his shotgun with him; he could at least pretend to be repairing it.

His mistress’s attention was seemingly engrossed in washing the protesting Dogmeat, but she said without looking up, “What did Simms say?”

“He agreed, Mistress.”

Samantha heaved a sigh of relief.  “Well, that’s a load off of my shoulders.  I was pretty sure he’d say yes, but it’s still nice to have it settled.”

“As you say.”

Samantha poured some shampoo into her hands and began to work the stuff vigorously into Dogmeat’s fur.  Suds lathered up over her hands.  Dogmeat whined again, his ears sagging; he looked miserable.  “Oh, stop it, you big baby,” Samantha rebuked him.   “This is killing all those nasty fleas you carry around with you.  You’ll feel so much better when it’s done, I promise.”  She rubbed some shampoo into the furry part of his ears.  “Anyway,” she continued, turning her attention back to Charon, “I was thinking we might head out again in a few days. After we rest up and hit Moira’s place, that is.”

“As you say, Mistress.  Where will we go?”

“I was thinking…ah…”  Samantha hesitated, and a trace of color came into her tanned cheeks.  “I was thinking maybe we could go by Rivet City again…maybe see if there was anything there to trade.”

_She wishes to see the DeLoria boy again._   Ever since they had dropped Butch off at the settlement in the old aircraft carrier, it seemed as if their visits there had become steadily more frequent, and the amount of time they spent there per stay had grown longer and longer.  _Ah well._   Charon shrugged mentally.  It was not for him to judge how his mistress chose to spend her spare time.

Dogmeat whimpered and whined as Samantha scrubbed him.  Charon shifted in his chair.  What Samantha had said earlier about his contract came drifting back into his consciousness.  _Surely she does not think…._   _But then why…._   He could not sit still.  He stood up and began to pace the confines of the house restlessly, ending up in front of the weapons locker.  _The minigun._    They had picked up an old and decrepit minigun from a Super-Mutant Master a few weeks ago; off and on, they had been tinkering with it since, trying to get it back into working order.  Now Charon pulled it out of the weapons locker.  He couldn’t work on it very well with his hands injured as they were, but at least it would be something to do.  He spread it out on the floor, careful to keep it away from the tub, and then bent to the gun, trying to silence his thoughts in the work.

Samantha, however, had noticed.  She looked up from scrubbing Dogmeat, frowning in concern.  “Is something wrong, Charon?”

“No, Mistress.”   Charon hesitated.  Shortly after she had first bought his contract, she had told him she wanted him to speak his mind.  It was not something that came naturally to him, but….  He drew a breath.  “Yes, Mistress.”

His mistress sat back on her heels, giving him her full attention.  “What?” she asked him quietly.  As Charon groped for a way to phrase it, she asked, “Is it…have you changed your mind about Simms taking your contract?”

“No, Mistress.  I….”  He drew a breath.  _She has **ordered** me to speak my mind,_ he repeated to himself.  _It is one of her standing orders._   “Mistress…it is…it is what you said, earlier.  To Simms.”

“What I said earlier?”  Samantha looked mystified.  “What was that?”

“You said…Mistress, you said that you saw no difference between my contract and…and slavery.”   

Samantha’s eyes lowered as she considered his statement.  “Essentially,” she said quietly.  She looked back at him.  “And?”

Charon was silent, staring at the pieces of minigun spread out on the floor.  What he was feeling was too complex to be easily fitted into words.

“So that is what you think of me.”  The words grated in his own ears.  He reflected distantly that it had been so long since he had gone through the ghoulification process that he no longer remembered what his own voice had originally sounded like.

“ _No,_ ” Samantha responded at once, vehemently.  “No, no, no, no, **_no._** _Never,_ Charon.”  He glanced up at her and saw her staring at him, her delicate jaw set and her blue eyes bright with intensity.  “I have never, not for one _second,_ thought of you as a slave.”

“Then I do not comprehend your purpose in saying that,” he rasped.  “Why would you say it, if you did not think of me as a slave?”

His mistress sighed.  “I said it _because_ I don’t think of you as a slave,” she responded.  

“I do not understand.”

“I don’t know if I can explain it,” she said quietly, stroking Dogmeat’s wet back with one hand. 

_Try,_ Charon almost started to say; then, realizing what he was doing, he choked it back just in time.  Instead he stared at her, waiting for answer.

“Charon….I think of you as my friend,” she said.  “My partner, my comrade-in-arms, the guy who watches my back.  The guy I trust with my life.”  She paused.  “But,” she continued with a sigh, “then….there’s your contract.”   She brushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes with her wrist.  “You’re my friend, but the contract is like—like this _leash_ on you,” she said, throwing out her hands in frustration.  “It means that you have to serve me and to obey my orders…and it feels _demeaning._ It’s…it’s…it’s degrading and ridiculous and it just feels _obscene_ somehow, it feels wrong, just _wrong_ —“  Her eyes dropped to his bandaged hands.   Charon realized she was looking and quickly hid them out of sight.  “You deserve better,” Samantha finished lamely, and went back to furiously scrubbing Dogmeat. The poor dog whimpered.

Charon said nothing.  He knotted his fists, heedless of the pain.  After a moment, Samantha glanced at him sideways.

“What do _you_ think?” she prodded bluntly.

“Mistress….”  Charon drew a careful breath.  “My contract is who I am.  It….Mistress, you say that the service to which I am bound is demeaning.  It is not _,_ ” he insisted, hearing his gravelly tones tremble a bit, then repeated, “It is _not._   It…it can be,” he allowed stiffly as he saw her unconvinced expression, “it…has been at times in the past—“ one or two of his especially unlamented masters came to mind “—but it is _not_ inherently so.”  He fought to find the words.  “Mistress, in speaking as you do about my contract—can you not see what you are saying about me?”

The question hung there.  Samantha shook her head.  “No.  Charon, you are _not_ your contract—“

“You are wrong, Mistress,” he corrected her flatly.  “My contract defines who I am.  It shapes my existence.  I cannot be separated from it, despite your wish to do so.”

His mistress gave a heavy sigh.  She turned her attention back to lathering suds in Dogmeat’s fur.  Dogmeat whimpered, looking confused.  After a moment, her attention buried in the dog, Samantha confessed.  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this, Charon.  Ever—Ever since the Enclave—“

Charon winced internally.  **_Forget_** _the Enclave,_ he wanted to say to her.  _I certainly am trying to._   He bit the words back.

“It’s—Knowing what I could…how far you would have to obey me,” she amended feebly, “it just makes my skin crawl.”  It was the same phrase Simms had used. “I don’t know how I can….”

She trailed off helplessly.  Charon swallowed, digesting what she had said.

“Then you _are_ thinking of transferring my contract,” he ground out.

“ _No,”_ Samantha insisted again.  “Transferring your contract wouldn’t solve anything.  I just…what I _want_ is just to find a way to take the danger away.  There’s got to be a way….” 

She bit her lip as her eyes left Dogmeat to wander around the room.  After a moment, Charon saw them settle on the newest addition to the house:  a black safe, bolted to the ground against the back wall next to the weapons locker.  Samantha studied that for a moment, then glanced at Charon speculatively.  She started to speak, stopped, then drew a breath and said, “What if….there wasn’t any contract anymore?”

An icy bolt of terror spiked through Charon.  “ _You would not **dare,**_ ” he heard himself rasp.  His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel himself trembling.  Somehow he was on his feet without quite realizing how he had gotten there.  Samantha’s eyes widened and she drew back a bit.  Dogmeat growled in the bath, baring his teeth.

“I won’t, I won’t,” she hastily assured him.  “It—it was just an _idea_ …”

“ _Promise,_ ” Charon demanded, breathing hard.

“I promise,” she said.  “I will not do anything to harm your contract.  You have my word.”  Charon sat back down, somewhat ashamed of himself; he drew deep breaths, trying to calm down. His hands were shaking and he clenched them together.   “But I still…I just don’t know what to do,” Samantha continued weakly.

He took a grip on himself, then said, “Mistress, there is nothing that needs to be done.  Simply go on as you are.”

“ _No.”_   Samantha shook her head. “I can’t.”  She scratched the soapy Dogmeat behind an ear, then brightened.  “I know!” she said as happily as if the idea were new and she were the first ever to think of it.  “What if I order you to behave as if you weren’t bound by the contract at all?  You’d have to obey, right?”

Charon gritted his teeth, reminding himself forcibly that Samantha meant no harm.  _She does not realize what she is saying._ “Others have tried that before you, Mistress.”  _And I hated it then too,_ he did not add.  “It does not work.  In truth, it _cannot_ work, for it is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of my contract.”  He closed his eyes briefly and pressed his fingertips to his forehead, carefully throttling his temper.  “As I have said, my contract defines who I am.  Telling me to act as if I were not bound by it is meaningless.  It is….”  He struggled a bit.  “It is like ordering Dogmeat to behave as if he were not a dog.  It simply cannot be done.”

“But I _hate_ this whole setup, Charon!” Samantha burst out.  Her face was flushed and red; she looked either furious or on the verge of tears.  “I _hate_ having this kind of imbalance between us!  Can’t we just be _friends,_ without you being compelled to be here whether you want to or not?”

She looked as miserable as Dogmeat, Charon thought; indeed, Dogmeat, seeming to sense his mistress’s unhappiness, whined and nuzzled her with a soapy nose.

“Mistress…”  He hesitated, leery of saying what came next; a lifetime spent under others’ power urged him to silence.  But something in Samantha’s obvious distress touched him; at last, he continued, “Where there is willingness, there is no compulsion.  You…”  He hesitated again.  “You do not compel me in this, my mistress.  I am…willing…to be here.”  He neglected to mention that there was currently nowhere else for him to go.  _Not anymore._

Samantha considered that, then exhaled.  “Yeah, you say that _now,_ ” she said, “But would you even _be_ here if I hadn’t bought your contract from Ahzrukhal?  I mean, if there were no contract in the first place?”  She shifted restlessly.  Charon mused in some distant part of his mind on his mistress’s tendency to make things harder for herself than they strictly needed to be.

“No, Mistress,” he admitted.  “If you had not bought my contract from Ahzrukhal, most likely it would never have occurred to me to join with you.  But Mistress—I am _here, now._   I am willing, I—“  He swallowed a bit; the words he was about to say next, he had never said to any other, though there had been one or two others for whom it was true.  “I _choose_ to be here _now_ —“

“You don’t _have_ a choice.”

It was as if she had just slapped him.  Charon actually felt himself recoil.  Samantha bit her lip.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “But…but it’s true.  You _don’t_ have a choice.  You can’t leave; your contract won’t let you.”

Charon said nothing.  He turned his face away instead, staring at the broken pieces of minigun scattered all over the floor.

“Isn’t that right?  Charon?”  Samantha paused.  “Charon, are you all right?”

He drew a breath, struggling to put his feelings into words.  “Mistress….do you not realize what you are doing?”  He picked up one of the minigun’s long barrels, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely.  The metal was cool against what was left of his skin.  “Mistress…in asserting that my willingness, my…choice to serve you is invalid because it is what my contract commands, you…you yourself are acting to deny my choices.  You…”  His teeth gritted again, and he could hear his rough voice grow harsher.  “You are attempting to take for yourself the power to determine which of my choices are legitimate.  You are robbing me of the ability to choose that I _do_ have.”  _Because if I cannot even choose to do willingly that to which I am bound, then … then she is right.  I do have no choice at all._    “Permit me to speak freely.   Mistress, you have offended me.”

He stole a glance at her and saw her face change.  “I apologize, Charon,” she said quietly.

 “At this time, the choice of my heart coincides with the terms of my contract,” he continued.  “Thus, I stay with you from choice.  Accept that, and be content.”

“But Charon…”  Samantha looked unhappy.  “Don’t you even want to be free?”

Charon considered that.  _To be free._   The idea of that—of living without any direction at all, without someone to serve, to give him orders or tell him his mission—was so far beyond his experience that he could not get his mind around it.  The closest thing he could imagine to it were those few moments when there had been no holder of his contract, and those experiences had not been pleasant ones.  He might at times have wished to be free of a particular _master,_ but the idea of being _completely_ free—of having no master at all….  Just thinking about it called up in him the same sick, unreasoning terror he had felt when Samantha had suggested destroying his contract earlier.  He clenched his fists hard, fighting it back down.

“No, Mistress,” he replied frankly.  “I have never wished that.”

“But…”  Dogmeat whined again, seeking attention.  Samantha reached out to pet the sudsy dog absently.  “But if you were free, Charon, then you wouldn’t have to be afraid.  You wouldn’t have to wonder if…”  She swallowed.  “If your employer were—were going to—“  She trailed off.  Her eyes fell once again to his bandaged hands; Charon cursed under his breath.  “If _I_ were going to—“

“Mistress, do you think I…fear you?”

“I don’t know.”  She swallowed again, casting her eyes down.  Charon saw a too-bright shimmer in them.  “I don’t see how it can be otherwise.”

Charon closed his eyes briefly.  _Stop it,_ he wanted to tell her.  _You are doing this to yourself; this has nothing to do with me.  Ever since the Enclave, you’ve been making yourself miserable over me for no reason.  You don’t deserve it and my situation is not worth the agony.  And frankly, I’m tired of this conversation._    The _last_ thing he wanted to talk or think about was the Enclave. He said none of those things.  Instead, he gave a sigh. Not knowing whether it would help, he ventured, “Mistress, you once said you trusted me.  Would it help you to know that….”  He stumbled for a moment; these words also he had never said to any other.  “That I trust you as well?”

Samantha stared at him.  “You—trust—me?”

“I do, Mistress.”

“But…how _can_ you?” she asked.  “How can you ever trust me, Charon, knowing how much power I have over you?”

He stared at the ground.  “I trust you because—“  _Because of the amount of pain  you’re putting yourself through over me._ “Because you are worthy of it, Mistress.  I have watched you, Mistress and I know….You are a woman of great honor.”

Samantha’s eyes lowered again.  The silence stretched out as she pondered that.  “Okay, Charon,” she said quietly.  “If that’s what you say then…then I guess that’s good enough for me.”  Abruptly, with an air of closure, she turned away from him and back to the utterly woeful Dogmeat.  “Sorry, boy,” she told him, scratching the dog hard; Dogmeat’s tail thumped once, pathetically.  “Anyway, the shampoo says you’re supposed to let it set for five minutes, and it’s definitely been that long by now.”  Perhaps her voice was a little unsteady and she took a quick swipe at her eyes with the back of one arm, but Charon did her the courtesy of turning away and pretending not to notice.

He fiddled aimlessly with the pieces of the minigun while Samantha rinsed Dogmeat and dried him off, but could make no headway with it; he suddenly felt as drained as if he had just come from a battle with five Deathclaws.  The sound of Dogmeat shaking came from behind him, and he heard Samantha cry, “Dogmeat, _no!_   Bad—  Stop it!  _Bad dog,_ Dogmeat!”  She sighed.  “Well, that teaches me to wash him indoors.  Live and learn, I guess.”

Giving up, Charon tossed down the piece of the minigun he was working on.  “Mistress,” he said, turning toward her, “will you require me for anything else tonight?”

Samantha was looking in dismay at the puddles of water Dogmeat had left on the floor.  Dogmeat, delighted to be freed from the bath, barked happily, bouncing in invitation to play.  Samantha fixed the excited dog with a baleful eye.  “You are bad,” she told the Blue Heeler.  Then, “No, I don’t think so, Charon.  If you want to turn in, go ahead.”

“As you say.” 

He had started up the stairs when she called after him, “Charon?”  He turned, and looked down over the rail.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“You said…”  She looked uneasy.  “You said that for now at least, the choice of your heart coincides with the terms of your contract.  What—what will you do if that ever changes?”

He regarded her for a moment.  “That day may never come, Mistress,” he said at last.  “But if it does, know that I will serve you still.  As I always have.”

“No,” Samantha said quietly.  She met his eyes. “I will not have you serve me unwillingly.  I _will not,_ ” she repeated.  “Charon, if the time ever comes when you _do_ wish to be free—all you have to do is ask.  That is _my_ promise to _you_ ,” she told him.  “No matter what.  If ever you come to me and ask for me to release you from the terms of your contract, whatever the reason, I will do it.  I give you my word _._ ”

“I will never ask, Mistress,” he said.  “But…thank you, all the same.”

She held his eyes for a moment longer, then nodded and looked away.  He could hear her scolding Dogmeat behind him as he continued up the stairs; then he passed into his room and shut the door, dimming the noises behind him.  He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes, sinking into sleep with her voice still murmuring indistinctly in his ears.

_Finis._


End file.
